


Incomplete Data Set

by lunabee34 (Lorraine)



Series: Dataverse [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Closeted Character, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/pseuds/lunabee34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kavanagh’s not exactly sure how it starts. Well, okay, the moment things kick off for real—that he can pinpoint. But all the steps leading up to where he is now? Not so much. They just don’t graph in a linear fashion, or even fit that weird Ancient constellation diagram thing that Grodin was working on before he died. And Kavanagh’s tried to crunch the numbers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incomplete Data Set

Kavanagh’s not exactly sure how it starts. Well, okay, the moment things kick off for real—that he can pinpoint. But all the steps leading up to where he is now? Not so much. They just don’t graph in a linear fashion, or even fit that weird Ancient constellation diagram thing that Grodin was working on before he died. And Kavanagh’s tried to crunch the numbers. Often. So he can’t say for certain where it begins, but if McKay was reaming him in front of the senior staff-- _spit it out, you imbecile_ and _what a ringing endorsement for contraception you are_ \--Kavanagh would say this thing with Bates starts with an overloaded septic line.

@@@

“I don’t know when Atlantis stopped being the most amazing arena of scientific exploration known to man and became an intergalactic refugee camp, but I’m positive I know who to blame,” Kavanagh says. He’s talking softly to himself as he unfastens the casing on a control panel, muttering under his breath like all the scientists do when they’re working—each lab a steady hum of overlapping conversations largely directed to inanimate objects. He’s gently removing a power crystal from its base when Kavanagh realizes he’s not in his lab anymore and maybe the Marine whose bathroom circuitry he’s repairing is even less inclined to hear his opinions on, well, anything, than his colleagues are.

Kavanagh glances up quickly, just in time to catch Bates’s upper lip twitch in what is either the military version of a tiny, commiserating smile or some kind of disconcerting facial tic. Bates continues stacking his laundry into regulation piles on the pristine surface of his perfectly made bunk, and Kavanagh takes a risk on the former. “Who are these Athosians anyway?” he continues. “And why should we trust them? Just put Sheppard in a gold tunic and slather Teyla in green paint and even a moron can tell what part of his anatomy the Major uses to make his decisions.”

Bates keeps his expression deliberately neutral at this comment, which is exactly as Kavanagh expected. He knows Marines well enough to know that Bates would sooner shoot himself in the foot than mouth off to a civilian about his commanding officer. But Bates doesn’t contradict him, and as far as Kavanagh’s concerned, that silence is tantamount to agreement. 

“And all these extra people, who apparently learned their toilet habits from _Dances with Wolves_ are seriously screwing with Atlantis’s waste removal system. Which is why I’m here, recalibrating the septic controls in everyone’s quarters so that the next time Baby Enla decides to flush her doll down the throne, we all don’t end up ankle deep in sewage.” Kavanagh pauses for breath and to be certain that his adjustments are accurate. “Glorified plumber is not in my job description, by the way. As soon as McKay got the call from Weir he looked at me and said, ‘You. Kavanagh. Go. This sounds like your area of expertise. All your theories turn to shit eventually.’ Can you believe that? What am I saying? Of course, you can. You’ve spent two minutes with the man.” Kavanagh replaces the panel’s casing and gathers his tools. “That should do it, Sergeant. Let me know if you have any problems with the system.”

By the time Kavanagh leaves, all Bates has said to him is, “Thanks,” and “Will do,” but he smiles for real when he says those things, and Kavanagh doesn’t mind the rest of his shift so much.

@@@

Bates nods to Kavanagh in the mess now, gives him that tiny lift of the chin Kavanagh remembers all the athletes back in high school used as a greeting. Kavanagh’s absurdly pleased every time Bates does this; the Marines barely acknowledge anyone outside the chain of command except for the handful of hot female scientists and Dr. Beckett, which Kavanagh assumes is because it pays to be on good terms with the man responsible for sticking your insides back where they belong when you find them suddenly and violently on the outside.

Kavanagh never eats alone; he’s friendly with a few of the other scientists, the ones who think McKay’s a pompous ass that could stand to get knocked down a couple notches. After all, none of them got chosen for this expedition because they’re as retarded as McKay suggests. But the civilians and the Marines don’t really mix, so when Bates plunks down his tray across the table from Kavanagh, Kavanagh’s astonished. Bates doesn’t make chitchat, just shovels in noodles until Dr. Smith and Dr. Patil get up to leave. Then he puts down his fork and says, “Hey, Kavanagh. My laptop froze on me this morning. Think you could check it out?”

And this is exactly like the time Matt Johnson asked Kavanagh to help him with his chemistry homework (Matt Johnson with his baseball arms and his white white teeth and his farmer’s tan), just a jock taking advantage of a nerd in that age old dance of brains and brawn, and Kavanagh’s a little ashamed he’s so gleeful that Bates has asked _him_ to fix the problem. But Bates is a nice guy—he’s been nodding hello for weeks for no other reason than being nice—so Kavanagh follows him back to his quarters and reboots the computer while Bates asks him what the other scientists think of Sheppard and Weir.

@@@

“So you see now, Elizabeth, why this is necessary,” Kavanagh says. 

Dr. Weir looks up at him hesitantly, the bars of her holding cell making shadows on her beautiful face. “You’re right, Dr. Kavanagh. You’ve always been right. I’m sorry it’s taken a disaster of this magnitude for me to realize that.” She begins to cry, great hitching sobs that rack her small frame, and Kavanagh magnanimously pats her on the back before ordering the Marines to lock her down for the night. 

On the way out, Kavanagh steps over the congealing mess that once was Rodney McKay—and hadn’t that been something to watch? McKay’s head expanding, growing larger and larger, his round eyes popping from their sockets, that wide mouth stretching even more grotesquely than usual until finally, finally his head exploded. On second thought, Kavanagh circles round again and steps on McKay’s hand for good measure, the bones in his fingers crunching quite satisfactorily under Kavanagh’s heel.

Kavanagh settles into Weir’s office, _former_ office, and begins drafting new protocol for operating the Stargate. The office doors open silently and Bates marches in.

“Major Sheppard is dead, sir. The space syphilis has run its course. Dr. Grodin is uploading the video of his death throes to the server as per your order.”

“What music did Grodin set it to?” Kavanagh asks.

“I believe ‘What Goes Around Comes Around,’ sir.”

“Excellent. At ease, soldier.”

Then Bates vault across the desk and pins Kavanagh in Weir’s chair. Weir’s _former_ chair. He drags down Kavanagh’s zipper and mouths his cock through his boxers, soaking their fabric with that sweet wet heat until Kavanagh is trembling beneath the strong hands that grip his hips tightly enough to bruise. Eventually, Bates pulls Kavanagh’s cock from his boxers and blows him, dirty and messy, with his cheeks hollowed and his lips all shiny with spit and then Kavanagh is moaning and thrashing and coming down Bates’s throat.

Kavanagh wakes with his sheets glued to his stomach and his pulse racing. “Sweet,” he says into the darkness.

@@@

Kavanagh hits the mess early one morning, shortly after it opens, and find himself standing behind Bates in the chow line. Bates nods hello, like always, and by the time they reach the dessert tray, they’re arguing Batman vs. Superman, and Kavanagh’s fighting down surprise at how well reasoned most of Bates’s arguments are.

Bates doesn’t sit with him; he settles in with a table full of other Marines, but Kavanagh doesn’t mind. As he’s crossing the room to sit with Dr. Patil, Kavanagh hears someone ask Bates, “Who’s the Squint?”

“Oh, that’s Kavanagh,” Bates says. “He’s cool.”

All the rest of the day—even when Weir opens the Gate without properly identifying the party on the other side, in flagrant violation of protocol; even when McKay prints out pages of Kavanagh’s second doctoral dissertation and makes corrections in the margins before setting them on fire in the Bunsen burner; even when he loses an entire table’s worth of data because Miko can’t stop staring at McKay’s ass long enough to take her elbow off the delete key—Kavanagh thinks of breakfast and he smiles.

@@@

Kavanagh hears Bates before he sees him, the heels of his boots making an angry racket in the corridor outside the lab. Kavanagh’s alone; his shift is technically over, but he can’t sleep. Not now. Not knowing the Wraith are so close. Kavanagh doesn’t want to die. He always knew that death was a possible outcome for him as a member of this expedition, but on the other side of the Stargate, that concept seemed so, well, abstract. Now—with the Wraith upon them and Bates nearly running down the corridor with his hands white knuckled around his weapon—now death seems almost a foregone conclusion.

“What’s wrong?” Kavanagh asks.

He’s surprised when Bates cases the corridor and then actually answers him. “Teyla’s part Wraith. They can read her mind! They can use her to get to us, the city’s compromised, and it should’ve been Sumner putting down Sheppard like a dog instead of the other way around.”

Kavanagh doesn’t know what to say, but apparently his mouth is working on autopilot because he hears himself stammer, “Do you want some coffee? I’ve got a stash of the real stuff hidden in here.” He bites the inside of his cheek, hard, until the urge to babble further dissipates. 

Bates shifts his weight from his right foot to his left and then he says, “No, that’s not what I want from you.” He yanks Kavanagh into the lab and locks the door behind them, ducking his head when Kavanagh tries to kiss him, but he works his hand inside Kavanagh’s pants quickly enough and then they’re both breathing hard and starting to sweat a little, even in the chill of the lab. This isn’t what Kavanagh expected, what he wanted at all, but Kavanagh’s used to that. He tells himself it doesn’t matter that Bates won’t look him in the eye, that he presses his face to the wall while he jacks Kavanagh’s cock with quick efficient strokes that border on painful. Kavanagh comes first and he keeps his hand moving on Bates even as he’s riding down his orgasm and when Bates does come, he makes this soft noise in the back of his throat that sounds like a sob.

“This never happened,” Bates says as he wipes his palm down the wall and tucks himself back inside his uniform. Then he leaves. Kavanagh watches him go, thinking of Matt Johnson and his blue eyes and the way they never spoke again after that one kiss, that brief brush of chapped lips and Matt’s fingers curving gently around Kavanagh’s neck.

@@@

All around him, Atlantis burns. Some of Kavanagh’s colleagues are dead, others are dying slowly and by degrees, and Bates is unconscious in the infirmary. Kavanagh doesn’t know what to do. He’s pretty sure, “this never happened,” doesn’t mean, “come keep vigil at my bedside,” and even if it did, Kavanagh can’t afford that luxury just now. Atlantis’s infrastructure is unsound in many places, dangerously so, and people’s lives are in his hands.

So Kavanagh crawls through an air duct, bruising his knees, and he patches the coolant leak before anyone else dies choking and later when Beckett is bandaging his hands, Kavanagh watches Bates from the corner of his eye. He decides it doesn’t matter whether or not he can map the steps that led him here. As long as Bates still sleeps, the final variable in the equation remains unknown.


End file.
